


to touch the stars or be forgiven

by inspectorwired



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: (as canon compliant as i could manage), Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Mastermind Momota Kaito
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26584102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspectorwired/pseuds/inspectorwired
Summary: This is little other than a chase against lost time. This is his universe's greatest kick before it fades, before he fades; in spite of it all destined for importance.Momota doesn't believe in destiny, the concept itself a lazy, simple lie, but he is first and foremost a storyteller, and the greatest storytellers are all liars.Of swan songs and missed chances.(Momota falls in love.)
Relationships: Momota Kaito/Oma Kokichi, Momota Kaito/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 74





	to touch the stars or be forgiven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeroJester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeroJester/gifts).



There is no uncertainty in his mind as he decides on where the lights will fall this time around. Momota presses the buttons quickly, picks and chooses the branching patterns to set the start, already knowing what sort of feeling the tail end will induce: a tale of an impossible, aimless journey through space and time, of leaping against fate, bigger than yourself and bigger than reason as you choose to go on, alone among the stars, defying all odds with a burning conviction and a will stronger than anything.

Momota isn't good with words like these, but he doesn't need to be.

He's always been fascinated with the universe, and, in here, he can be anything, he can do anything.

The end result surprises him. The real thing, with no glowing screen to mediate, and real people, fake as they are, changes him.

It’s not the way it should be, none of it. It’s not a surprise; he’s not well acquainted with the previous contestants' starting conditions, but something tells him that a person’s core isn’t all that easy to erase and replace.

Either way, they’re not following the script.

In all honesty, Momota sort of likes it that way. He appreciates the unknown a lot more than anything encased inside the guidelines and rules set by others, he’d say. He likes the challenge.

Some of the things, though, do not sit well with him at all. Akamatsu completely ignores the intended, for example, or maybe amplifies it, unapologetic, unwavering. She’s too strong, he sees, too stubborn to go along - with not only her set role, but also the game itself. This will cause problems.

Shirogane ends up being the one to do something, assistant that she might be, not letting Momota in on it much other than, _Keep everyone away from the library on the final day, when the music starts. I’ll take care of it._

He organizes them all into an easily manageable group, leaving the two of them alone, and shows up at the last moment to stop them from entering until it's all done and ready.

"Huh? What are you guys doing here? Well, no matter," he says through the grating music that smothers the noises on just the other side of the door. "This is perfect timing. Come join our strategy meeting," nonchalant, a coincidence. Easy.

He does, and he does, and he’s still sad to see the girl go. She didn't stand a chance.

He watches her swing, limp, slowing, small in perspective and comparison. Eyes raised to follow her movements, he's not nearly as disturbed as he can pass off as being. Not his first time seeing a body, nor acting as if it is. Not his last.

The anger, he doesn't even fake. He _is_ angry. She was a hero. This isn't how it was supposed to go.

The next issue is that, with Akamatsu gone, they need a spare - someone to fill the role of the one to root for.

The candidate is obvious enough, except that he isn't, because he isn't acting right, isn't saying anything, isn't getting angry. This, in turn, makes Momota even more irritated, has him acting stupid.

(He didn't mean it that way. He got carried away.)

It's not hard to apologize first thing next morning, even if it doesn't fix much. He shouldn't have hit him. But, how could he not? The boy has a role in this story, and it's not _that_ , staring brokenly into space, face blank, not a word of protest, no threats of what he'd do to the ones responsible, of avenging the fallen.

Well, it's no use fretting over it. The fact is that Saihara is despairing; and, Momota thinks, he won't stand for that. Doesn't make for a good show if the main character does jack shit to further the plot.

Momota decides to stay with him for a while, dragging him about. If responsibility is what makes him crack, he'll absolve him of it completely. If what he needs is a helping hand or a leader, friend, Momota will do his best to provide him with exactly that. He always was good at giving people what they need.

He averts the attention that Gonta turns skywards, laughs it off until they're focused on something else. They aren't supposed to notice the stars yet.

Things are going alright, for a while.

He messes a little with the casino games and chats with others, spends his time pretending to be the carefree high school student that he never was or will be.

Screwing around with Ouma proves more fun than it has any right to be. Momota loves being like this, unrestricted, lashing out with no consequences or the usual pressure and blame; running until his chest hurts with purpose, shouting so much his lungs get bloodlessly sore.

"Come on, come on, Momota-chan," Ouma glances back to yell after him, his entire face twisted into a smile, "Try to keep up!"

Momota pauses before speeding up, just for a split second, maybe less, a blink of an eye to be taken off guard.

"I'm gonna get you this time, you little fucker!" he shouts.

This is just a fun distraction. As it is, Momota tries not to let it distract him too much.

Momota understands Saihara's feelings. He just went through losing a confidant, someone to pull him along whenever he feels lost. He gets it. But, for all his real and made up issues, he can't stand the way Hoshi is acting.

What the fuck is a will to live? Is a will something so weak, something so necessary? How spoiled do you have to be, to have the health and the means and to still throw them away for the sake of something as vague as a purpose?

Make your own. Find your passion. You're alive. Make your own purpose.

He shouldn't be talking about this. (He could snap the world in half over this.)

He shouldn't be so hard on Hoshi; he knows it's tough. Himself and the writing team, after all, are the ones that helped make it tough.

Momota makes up an excuse for his actions on the spot, something shallow about him admiring the boy too much to see him like this, and the others drink it all up.

Of course they do.

The bug meetup is another distraction, not even one Momota needs, not one that makes his heart race faster despite his plans and best intents, although he's far from welcoming more of those. Ouma keeps making them.

Momota hides in one place that he knows will be safe from being found - the girls' restroom, then a little lower - and busies himself by getting another flashback light ready, mindlessly, the story already formed and long since decided on.

He really does not like bugs.

He can't be bothered with unnecessary shit like this. He doesn't have the time.

He continues spending as much time with Saihara as needed to pull him out of that slump he's gotten in, to get his blood pumping and his eyes once again shining with excitement. After all, it's on him to keep everything moving.

This is more or less a necessity, he thinks, watching the boy collapse onto the ground face-first and giggle with exhaustion, cheeks flushed. Just a job, nothing more.

"I made it, Momota-kun," he says, breathing heavily. ( _Are you proud of me? Tell me you're proud of me. Tell me I did good._ )

Momota's chest squeezes, almost uncomfortably, almost like a sickness of another sort, as Saihara props himself up onto his elbows and blows a strand of hair away from his eyes, says, "I finished all fifty, did you see? Now it's your turn."

He likes him.

He genuinely does.

Fuck.

It makes no difference. Momota repeats to himself like a tuneless record. It changes nothing, because he still has a mission to do, a show to direct.

The next goal he sets for himself is about dragging Harukawa out of her room, getting her to play along with everyone. What's the point of having her in the story if she won't participate?

Her being there during the training makes things easier, somewhat. It's better if she's making eyes at him; less of a challenge wearing a role if there's one other person to expect it of him, their very presence keeping him in check.

He does his best to get everyone involved and working together. Shirogane is just an assistant, after all, and Kiibo is nothing more than the audience's plaything.

It's on him, and he likes it that way.

No one is suspecting him, of course, not the hero, well-intentioned and eager to help. He's not even smart enough, when it comes down to it, not him. Who would suspect someone like him?

He's thinking Ouma might, with the way he looks at him, the questions he raises. Momota can only hope that this is just natural suspicion making him keep his eye on everyone. (But, Ouma is not like this with everyone; not quite like this with anyone else.)

He was thinking Saihara might, before. Too smart for his own good, this boy, engineered backstory aside, which is what got his friend killed and their roles swapped in the first place. But, he's swayed by emotions, out of his depth, which makes things easier.

(Momota knows why, he noticed, couldn't miss it blind. He wishes he were.)

He wasn't prepared, initially, for the way some of these people have grown out of their initial roles. Ouma isn't just a jester, far too cunning and dangerous for that, and Harukawa is too self-centered and fearful to be a threat, and Akamatsu was the first one, the quickest to deviate, he should have known. Saihara, too, uncertain but flawed, and so much stronger than he appears to be. And still, he's looking at him like...

Momota shakes his head. It shouldn't matter. Being in charge of this is all he's ever wanted. Everything else shouldn't matter. Leading this, it's his last chance at being somebody.

He keeps repeating it for himself, but the sentiment has trouble sticking, carrying any sort of meaning. What sort of greatness comes with calling the shots for a show with numerous seasons, reruns, reboots; what's the importance in helping nudge a sorry bunch of lost kids over the edge?

With the way they all are, so much more than he could ever dream of, he's not even needed as a director for the drama.

He isn't needed here.

He gets carried away and it's idiotic, unnecessary, but he's not necessary to anyone, so why does it matter? Because, the game is twisted and Gonta should be innocent and Ouma is smarter than they could've ever guessed but he's so _stupid,_ doing this, and Saihara isn't even listening, and Momota didn't want this, he can't help but lash out.

It could kill them all, him succeeding, getting them to listen to his senseless exclaims, but no one in their right mind would vote wrong now that the facts are all polished, shining brightly, sorted out for them to pick through, right _there_.

No one would listen to him anyway, so what's the point, he thinks as he charges towards the petite, laughing figure to throw a punch that he knows won't land.

He's so pissed off at Ouma, himself, everyone; how dare he. Snapping under pressure, masquerading as a villain, him of all people; how dare he make exposing Momota the only truthful thing that fell out of his mouth ever since Gonta died.

(What's another act of passion, one more drop in their abundance? He's drowning, he's drowning.)

He charges again, and gets surprised, imprisoned, the former makes him glad, impressed more than frustrated. The game is in shambles, and Momota doesn't even care. This was supposed to be his swan song, his one big thing, and he could care less.

Ouma has been too cautious to be noticed, and he's opposing everything they've set the stage for, breaking them down, even removing Momota from the others, rendering him useless.

Does he have a hunch after all? Momota hopes not. He'd say getting killed here would make the culprit obvious, but he's learned not to expect anything when it comes to Ouma's plans, and he can only hope.

It would be frustratingly meaningless, dying here like this.

Momota can hear a quiet _tap tap tap,_ shoe soles against the ground, a person hesitantly drawing near, and he turns and walks over, peeks through the small bathroom window before he can stop himself, calling out.

"Momota-kun?" his friend is quick to reply. He looks so damn relieved.

 _This was a mistake. This was a fucking mistake._ He gives his all to sound normal, regardless.

He wants to tell Saihara that it will be okay, but can't even look him in the eye properly, rendered silent under dozens of different layers of shame. He wants to tell him what he wants to hear, one last time, to right all the wrongs that he's done to him, some of them before they've even met, but can't let out anything other than the usual, superfluous nonsense.

He changes the subject, still a coward, and makes up Ouma's presence as a way out, prideful, terrified.

The next time he hears tapping, it's higher and deeper, evenly spaced, knuckles against window instead of footsteps.

"What are you doing?" Shirogane hisses at him as soon as he opens. "This wasn't planned. It is plainly foolish."

"Yeah, well," he scratches the back of his head, aiming for casual, "Maybe I decided on doing somethin' a little different, yeah? Show the audience some drama. It's my fucking story anyway, so I figured-"

"It is not your story," Shirogane gives him a perfectly nondescript smile. "It is your job, one that I should have gotten anyway. The only reason that it went to you is because you're dying."

 _She's right_ , Momota thinks, scowling at her, and says, "I got it under control."

"I've been fixing your mistakes," Shirogane continues candidly. "The others have remembered that there was a group with a goal to bring despair to all of mankind, with Ouma-kun at their very top. Clever, right?"

Momota buries his nails into his palm, burning with the desire to throw a punch. He wants to say, _Stop it with Enoshima and that sentimental bullshit, the bosses made it clear how much they disliked the idea of bringing back the Remnants_. He wants to, but something grabs a hold of his words and twists them into, "Leave Ouma the fuck out of this, or we'll have a problem."

"I plainly had to do _something_!" She leans a little closer, falsely conspiratory. "Did you know that poor Saihara-kun was planning on committing suicide over you?"

Momota's blood turns cold.

"It's not your fucking turn to call the shots," he spits out. He feels so helpless it burns.

He wants to say something else, but he can hear footsteps and has to slam the tiny window shut before Ouma shows up, narrow shoulders squared to battle the exhaustion slipping through his cracks, batting his eyelashes, asking, _Who were you talking with, Momota-chan_? _What about? Oh, oh, I heard a girl voice!_

_Could you, perhaps, be in love?_

He fucked up, he knows, he fucked up.

This is yet another thing that he didn't expect, and he was stupid, he was so stupid, he thinks, an arrow in his arm and another one through Ouma's, a third piercing Ouma whole, the boy's small torso soaked with blood and inner organs torn and ruined. Momota thinks again, _I've been so dumb_ , then, deliriously, selfishly, _Now we're the same_. A desperate, intrusive thought.

( _Shot through versus decaying, chests stained, teeth; it would taste awful if we kissed_.)

"I've figured it out," Ouma tells him, something manic in his eyes; the combination of the poison and the lack of blood and the promise of death clawing at his spine. Momota knows. "I've thought of a plan," he says, "To destroy this sick game once and for all."

Momota wants to say that he doesn't know why Ouma is taking so long convincing him that he's not the mastermind, but bites his tongue and doesn't, because he knows why. What he also knows is that it's unnecessary, meaningless. There's no _time_.

Ouma doesn't know.

The fact that Momota is rethinking it is another thing that Ouma doesn't know. He has been for a while now, the very premise of his desires torn to pieces with realizations, one by one.

This is not a story for himself, to make his own world and be the hero. It's a story for the masses to laugh and point at and have something to talk about during lunch break and recess, to bond over on boring outings. He can't pretend that this is not the case, anymore.

The deaths were so easy to ignore when they were little other than puppets on the television screen, not like these people are. His insignificance was easy to ignore when the deception of greatness waited for him whenever he stepped into the hidden lair.

He's nothing. And he might lose what little he has, over what never was.

"Let's hear it, then," Momota interrupts, leaning onto his elbow and suppressing a cough scratching at his insides. "Your plan."

Ouma seems a bit surprised at his readiness, but says nothing. It's not like he has any other options, now.

_I could have loved you_ , he thinks into the empty room, seconds before the press smashes down. 

_At another time, place, cross of circumstances, I could've loved you._

_I know you loved Saihara rather than me_ , he thinks towards no one that can hear, quiet as the dead are. _I don't hate you for it._

_He could never even notice._

_I don't hate him for that, either_.

Blood pours out between the cracks, drips down with barely a sound. 

Of course he can act as him.

(He didn't even touch the notebook.)

Eyes closed or hands tied, wired, bleeding out and lungs on fire, he has it down to a tick and voice lilt. This is not a challenge. Not for him, for his act, knowledge, it is not a challenge. He knows the script and characterization, after all, he's worked on it himself.

This is not true, not entirely, because Ouma is something else entirely - they all are. But, even all the changes and additions, even them, he knows him.

He knows him like someone he's known his entire life.

Saihara's face after he sees him exit the Exisal is one that he'll remember for as long as he lives - but this is too redundant, needlessly dramatic, his life's end just around the corner. Momota knows that he's a dead man walking, and his latest stunt only sped up the process.

He still stares, his friend's eyes and cheeks wet with tears, expression so pained and adoring that Momota almost averts his eyes, almost wonders why didn't he think to himself, _To hell with it_ , as soon as he saw it, an awkward boy stumbling towards him on a sunny path, putting his hand out to shake as if Momota hadn't helped name him hours ago, soft eyes blinking at him under that stupid hat.

Doesn't matter now. No matter anymore, none of it, Momota thinks; they've just as well made it.

There's still Shirogane, furious at him and this entire game, and there's Kiibo. There's still- all the bullshit that they've dealt with so far, but he believes in them.

The story's already ruined. He did something right for once.

"I'll leave the rest to you, Shuichi," he tells his pretend-play sidekick, and wants to tell him so much more, things he's never said to him, like _I'm proud of you_ , like, _I hope you make it out fine. You deserved better than this. Better than me._

_You can end this for me._

He doesn't speak it out loud, the metallic, echoing noises thundering in his head, liquid iron on his taste buds and a solid iron cage containing his body, the makeshift spacecraft burying deep into the ground as a way to mock him. He doesn't speak at all, voices swallowed whole by the grating sounds and vibrations, but it's one of the things coursing through his mind on a loop, strong enough to drown out all the rest.

_I'll die on my own terms._

He thinks it, again and again, a record broken through his violent, rippling coughs. He might have snapped too. _Not for you._

 _On my own terms_ , he thinks, as the noises become louder, as the nose of the rocket speeds up, turned into a drill, the weightlessness pulls at his stomach and he can see droplets of blood floating in front of his face in the cabin, _My own way, and I will be the greatest_ , his coughs now frantic, uncontrolled, tearing his lungs out through his mouth, _Endless, immortalized, I'll_ -

**Author's Note:**

> (the title references richard sikens snow and dirty rain because im a pretentious bastard and also that whole poem is a minefield of saioumota-applicable phrases so fuck me i guess)  
> i had to physically stop myself from tagging this as 'non-vr au'  
> if momota sounds a bit older in this, its because hes supposed to. i really like the idea of the showrunners being older than the rest of them  
> i listened to [this](https://phemiec.tumblr.com/post/176858584665/cw-for-some-darksexual-themes-in-the-lyrics) cover of sick, sick, sick by qotsa while writing. its such a great version, melodic and creative and solemn, check it out if you want
> 
> to everyone who isnt _not_ miss nero jester, the vlach magic staircase enchantress and her own waifu itself, thank you - for all the talks, ideas, getting me into this mess in the first place. this fic wouldnt exist without you and i hope i did your thoughts justice, but i told you this already. still leaving it here as well to keep in the annals of ao3 end notes. fandoming with you is incomparable. i love you (but you already know that, too)


End file.
